


Campfire Stories

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Guilt, Hatred, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Religion, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, no beta we die like mogwain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: Drabbles based onthesewriting prompts for October.
Relationships: Arthur & Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Merlin & Nimue (Cursed), Merlin & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Pym & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Pym & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween & Blessed Samhain, Cursed ones.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Ashman?”

Lancelot looks down on the beads he is clutching tightly in his hand and thinks about what to reply. Does one believe in something he sees every other night? The vague shadows sway in the corners of the tents in the flickering candlelight, they thicken under the branches of the trees in the woods and appear for a blink in the tarnished dim silver of his blade. They are always there, the silent accusation that makes the burden of the guilt on his shoulder heavier every day. Still, he sees them, always, from the corner of his eyes only, and once he turns to face them, they vanish.

His fingers brush over the beads in a familiar lulling pattern, as he finishes the silent prayer for the gone ones. Fey allowed him to keep that memento - he is still not sure how or why, but there is something almost compassionate in the Green Knight’s eyes as they lingered on the strings of beads he clutches nervously in his hand. Lancelot sees it, because he glances at the man, trying to come up with an adequate answer.

With a sigh, he drops the rosary on the bed and shakes his head, drawing his knees up and leaning back against the wall.

“No,” he replies, at last, averting his gaze from the knight to rule out the possibility of their eyes meeting, “I don't.” 

It is not a matter of a belief, after all, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Gawain surely knows that - but he is curious, still.

“What does your folk believe in, then?”

The silence stretches between them, coiled tight with heavy tension, before he replies, carefully uttering each word under his breath.

“That we are nothing but ash scattered in the wind.”


	2. Blood

Everyone always says that the smell of blood is metallic, that blood tastes of copper, and while that is undeniably true, there is more to it. Lancelot can feel it on his tongue, those subtle undertones, as the wind carries the scent to him.

If the wind blows from the healers’ quarters, there is always the hint of bitterness in it from the potions Fey brew, odd herbal remedies he is still wary of, even though they are undeniably effective in treating wounds and burns alike. On the crosses, it… But Lancelot banishes that thought quickly. When there is no sour scent of fear, when it’s just a cut on a finger Pym gets from being too hasty with a knife as she chops the potion ingredients, it tastes sweet on his tongue. There is also this potent, heady scent that trails after most women; it makes his mouth water, even though it is slightly stale, and so he ignores it as much as he can, turning politely away as they pass through.

There are many scents of blood, and most of them are utterly disgusting, he is aware of it despite his fascination. But the worst of all, he thinks as he polishes the blade of his sword clean after another skirmish, is that of old blood.

These days, it always feels like he can’t quite get rid of the rusted spots. He goes over it again and again, until the cloth starts to wear through, the threads coming apart slowly until one day it tears in halves and leaves Lancelot to sit there, staring numbly at its pathetic remains.

Perhaps, he thinks, it’s not the cloth that is to blame. Perhaps, it is his mind that is unravelling.


	3. Death

Lancelot is no stranger to death. 

For the longest time, it was the main purpose of his existence; he became its loyal champion, and in return, it never strayed too far from him, either. At times, it feels like it clings to the edge of his cloak wherever he goes like a persistent scent of smoke that you can never quite get rid of once it wove itself in between the threads. 

If Lancelot is honest with himself, and he tries to be, these days, no matter how much grief it brings him, then he can admit it is more profound than that, even. Death has not been content with merely shrouding him; it wove itself in between his bones and tendons, as well, made itself at home in his head. His body was honed to deliver it, and his mind to worship it. It almost feels like a violent love affair, even though the mere thought of it forces him to close his eyes and breathe, just breathe, to avoid bending over at the nearest bush. But even when his stomach churns and his vision swims with black spots, Lancelot still hauls himself up and makes himself face the wreckage of his soul. 

He doesn’t truly know how to live, he realises. All he ever was taught was how to kill and not be killed. But there is such a vast distance between not dying and living, and when he looks at it, it seems like an impossible feat. It feels as if his hollowed-out chest would collapse if he tries to inhale. 

Or rather, he dares to hope, as a warm hand lands on his shoulder and he reaches without a thought out to lace their fingers together, it used to be.

“Contemplating the fates of the world?” the knight asks with a wry, warm grin.

Lancelot hums softly, amused, and slowly shakes his head. “Just my own.”

Gawain cocks his head, and a frown deepens on his face as he stares at Lancelot. Finally, he wonders, quietly, “Is it death or life that got you so worried?”

“Both.”

The man is silent for a while, and when he speaks again, his voice is gravely serious.

“I am sorry you have to keep taking lives. But you know it is not the same. It doesn’t make you worse to kill someone who threatens your kin.”

His head devoid of any words, Lancelot just shrugs slightly. Deep down, he still can’t find it in himself to agree. He is not sure murder serves any purpose at all, and neither is he sure it will ever be truly gone from his spirit. But, well, he will ask it once they meet one last time whether it was worth it to hold on to him so tightly. 

However, it’s a rather grim outlook, even he realises that, and he’d rather not argue about it right now. There will be time for philosophical debates once they return to the camp in the evening. Such a conversation should take place once the dim light offers some privacy to one’s face, even if that face is forever weeping, anyway. 

The knight squeezes his fingers briefly and then draws his hand back. Glancing behind them, Lancelot sees that other fighters have joined them, meaning it is time to ride out.

“I told you,” Gawain says under his breath, for his ears only, “You and death are not the same. Nothing is that black and white. I have both, and so do you. We will have to kill now so that others can live.”

As they walk to their horses, he marvels at how strange the word itself feels when it’s Gawain who says it. The man is the epitome of life, the proof of its triumph over death. It is almost ironic, how they, seemingly the complete opposites, gravitate towards each other. The knight seems to see it as an inevitable thing, this need to balance each other, but for Lancelot, it does not feel as simple. 

However, he finds himself unable to resist the curiosity and longing the offer evokes in him. Death, after all, will meet him regardless of his actions. But for now, there is a life for him to try; and slowly, Lancelot begins to see that this one might be more important than the one that comes after.


	4. King

Uther can’t sleep.

He tosses and turns all night, on his goose-down pillows, on his silk-soft bed sheets, under his lavishly embroidered blankets. All of this exquisite luxury does not do shit to help him fall asleep.

Useless trash, he thinks grimly, throwing the blanket off and lowering his feet to the floor. It’s stone, and the chill of it bites into his skin at once, hungrily reaching all the way to the bone. The fire had gone out during the night, again, despite his strictest orders to keep it going in all chambers. It is a waste, but Uther is desperate to ward off the cold and the dark that crawls inside his castle through every crack and crevice in its walls and windows. He has always been fond of winter, it’s black and white landscape oddly pleasing to his eye, but now something has changed. The chill brought by November winds feels almost… alive, as it slips inside the hallways whenever someone dawdles with shutting the door. The idea sends a shiver of fear down Uther’s spine that he vehemently refuses to acknowledge. Trying to cover it up, he barks at the servants, poor fools who stumble in fear and scurry away, bringing heaps and heaps of kindling.

It doesn’t help, no matter how hard they appear to try. Awoken once again by the cold, teeth chattering, or, even worse, unable to fall asleep in the first place, their king goes off to wander the corridors. There is a dismayed, thunderous expression on his face that makes noblemen and servants alike avert their eyes and swallow thickly. It appeases him some, to see them cower; but deep down, Uther knows it is not their fault. There is something in the air this last fortnight, like a foul smell that keeps thickening until everyone is turning their heads, looking for the source, even if no one dares to utter a word about it.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, he thinks, pressing his forehead against the edge of the embrasure overlooking the northern direction. He doesn’t know what he is waiting for, or how to battle it, how to outsmart it, but one thing he is sure about.

Something wicked is coming for them from the north.


	5. Lantern

The candle is almost out. While there is still enough light cast by it, Squirrel lights a new one, puts it inside a lantern and slams its lid firmly shut.

Hooking his dirt-stained fingers around the metal hop on top, the boy raises the lantern and peers demandingly at the old stone wall. A faint frown of concentration creases his forehead more and more, as he tries to read the symbols, lips moving silently.

It’s Old Fey, and he barely knows enough of the letters for the one they speak nowadays, but there are helpful little paintings, as well, and those make much more sense. Squirrel is not sure why they even bother with the letters, especially if every bloody folk insists on having their own, but the Green Knight says he needs to learn, so he does. Doesn’t mean he likes it.

It does appear to be helpful when it comes to sorcery, though. Still, even if what he sees seems important, he is not a mage, and there is no shame in admitting defeat when battling those cryptic messages, so the boy abandons his attempts at making head or tail of them rather quickly. 

“Nimue?” he calls out, still not taking his eyes off the paintings on the wall, as if trying to stare them down.

There is a clattering noise, a low, frustrated hiss, a cautious pitter-patter of footsteps, and then the young woman’s voice sounds right behind his shoulder. He doesn’t jump, of course, but the lantern sways a bit, sending the shadows to a merry dance on the walls of the cave.

“I think I’ve found what we are looking for.”

She bends over then, squinting at the faded etchings on the crumbling stones, and her long hair falls over her shoulder, tickling his neck. He frowns, shifting a bit away, and the woman absent-mindedly tucks it away, her gaze still fixed firmly on the wall. The boy glances up at her, wondering if he made a mistake, and it was something useless after all, some fragment of history, half myth and half outright lie, like the dozens and dozens of the ones they have already spent days deciphering.

“It’s that spider, right? The one that got a hold on Morgana?”

“I think so,” Nimue mutters under her breath, and then draws back, straightening with a deep frown. “You should leave, Squirrel. There are more and more of those strange symbols; it’s too dangerous for you to go further. I’ll continue alone.”

He scoffs dismissively and gives the lantern a pointed shake.

“There is still enough of the wick. Don’t fret, Nim.”


	6. Moonlight

Arthur is ashamed of many things about himself; his debts, his questionable choices, his lacking morals, and so on, and so on. Overall, one can say that he is ashamed of his misfortunes. Yet he also knows - well, rather, he believes strongly - that there are good things about him, still, despite all his dishonourable actions. He allows himself to keep believing that the intention behind the action, matters, as well, and he does his best to extend that attitude towards others, as well. 

Whenever the time allows - namely, if there is not an arrow flying directly into his direction - Arthur tries to walk a mile in the shoes of the person who opposes him now. There are many of those, as he was reliably informed that his cheerful attitude tends to piss people off. Briefly, he considered hiding it - but then decided against it. If anything, he has turned it into his weapon, keeping that unwavering optimism that sometimes drives people insane, because they are not used to it, and most of the time, their first instinctual reaction to the unknown is the desire to belittle it. But guess what, if he is stubborn enough - and he usually is - his hope takes their walls down, stone by stone. 

And in the end, it is almost always worth it. That is how he ended up being friends with Nimue, Pym, Gawain, and even Lancelot. The latter was a surprise for him as much as for the former monk. Because Arthur is an optimist, not a fool, despite what Gawain likes to grumble under his breath. However, here they are, three successful forays under their belts. It is a delightful, invigorating feeling, to know someone has your back, and slowly, even the anger he felt for Mogwain’s death started to dim. After all, it was his fault as well.

So, yes, Arthur tries to keep the smile on his face, but some days, it is just harder than others. People are hungry, and they are tired, and then they become waspish, snapping at the slightest change in his tone, seeing insults where none were intended. Unfortunately, he is just the safest target to take their anger out on, because at the end of the day, he is still a Man Blood with no name. Hence, some days, his muscles simply seize from the effort of keeping an amiable expression on, and instead his face freezes into the grimace that more resembles a snarl.

He sees it then, in their eyes, as they frown, taken aback by the suddenly feral grin of the usually so jovial, so calm man. In such moments, Arthur tries to wrap conversation early and go take a breather, just hang out on the shore - alone, for once. This is what he is doing now, as well, strolling down the beach, absent-mindedly kicking pebbles and watching them sink into the water without really focusing his eyes. From time to time, Arthur sighs, and he is well aware it sounds rather dramatic, but that’s just how his bloody voice is, and there is no one to hear it, thankfully.

It’s late, already, around midnight, judging from the height of the moon. Hence, the blissful absence of noise and commotion - no loud children playing in the sand, no fishermen hauling their catch to the village, Gods old and new be his witness, Arthur loves people with all of his heart, but even he needs to run away from them sometimes. Gawain can cover him for one night. The man owes them for the last week, when Lancelot, apparently, expressed the tentative wish to see the ruins of an old Fey temple hidden in the woods nearby. It was the first time he actually asked for something, so Arthur took one last longing look at his lute and relented. 

Sure, he could have taken it now, but his soul begs for silence and peace. So, he drops heavily to the ground and watches the waves, listens to their quiet murmur. There are fragments of songs in his head, but he lets them float around without trying to catch them. He still starts to hum a tune, mostly out of habit, but breaks off after the first two verses. There are fifteen in that one, and most of the lines are about a very boring list of the ships.

Arthur is so lost in his head, that it’s only when the pebbles grate under someone’s boots right next to him that he startles and scrambles off the ground, reaching for his sword - but then pauses and lets go of the hilt.

It’s Red Spear - Guinevere, he likes that one much more, even though he only ever uses it when they speak alone. Once, he called her Gwen, and what happened after that was one of the most terrifying experiences in his life - and Arthur has seen quite a lot for his young age, if he says so himself.

He stares at her with an unspoken question, still hoping that perhaps he can hold onto the quiet a bit longer. The woman is in no rush to answer, as she tilts her head, a small wry smile gracing her lips. It’s a rare view, something intimate that not many are allowed to see - and Arthur’s heart skips a beat at it, every time before, and now as well. 

And then the Raider Queen starts to hum softly, and, once the initial shock has subsided, he recognised the tune immediately. 

It’s the next verse - the one about the ships.

She hums two more, and it’s a surprisingly pleasant sound - not that she doesn’t have a beautiful voice, Arthur hastens to correct himself as if someone can hear his thoughts - but usually, she uses it for barking commands and spewing insults. Her ferocity astounds him in the best way possible - gods know, he is not afraid of powerful women - but to see that side of her is… it tugs on something in his chest.

The silence stretches, as Arthur looks at her, and she looks right back, and something is unfurling between them like a flower, basking in the moonlight. The salty wind caresses her hair, the wild strands swept to the side in a fashion of a warrior, but they look so soft to the touch - he almost reaches out, barely catching himself in time.

There is amusement on her face that he is pretty sure is at his expense, but for once, he doesn’t mind. Guinevere can laugh at him all she wants because Arthur knows that deep down, there is no malice. They understand each other too well for that - it always feels as if they have known each for much longer than just two months.

Though it seems there are still many things he doesn’t know about her. Intrigued, Arthur swallows the bait and breaks the silence at last.

“How do you know Iliad?”

She raises her eyebrows pointedly. “What, only men can?”

“No, that’s not…”

“Or only landlubbers?”

He falls silent, abandoning his vain attempts to explain himself, and just glares at her, watching how her smile grows until she chuckles and shakes her head.

Walking closer, she pushes him back down on the ground with a firm hand to his chest, and Arthur lets himself fall, still looking at her as she lowers herself to the sand next to him.

“I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s sit in silence,” the woman remarks conversationally as if nothing has happened, as if this moment just… blew over.

Arthur almost thinks he has imagined it, and goes to turn away, but then clenches his jaw, and keeps looking straight ahead at the moonlight, only seeing the raider’s face out of the corner of his eye. “Why sit together then?”

Guinevere shoots him a sideways glance. “It’s the best spot,” she answers simply.

“Well, I was here first,” Arthur mutters dejectedly and then briefly closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration at his own childishness. The woman, however, just hums with amusement.

“You are on my shore, so don’t be fucking cheeky with me.”

He can’t help smiling wryly in response, but still shakes his head. “Your shore?”

“Any shore is mine,” she says calmly, “as long as I walk on it with a spear in my hand.”

Arthur falls silent for a while, and even though his eyes don’t stray from the where the moonlight gleams off the sea surface, outlining a path somewhere beyond the horizon, his heart is full of awe for an entirely different reason.

“Can I use it when I write a song about you?” he asks, finally, and Guinevere smirks.

“Why, Arthur. I didn’t know you wanted to.”

Of course, you didn’t, he thinks with a fond, exasperated smile.


	7. Nightmare

Pym wakes up with a gasp, as someone lands on top of her, and very nearly swings her fist at them, before realising it is Squirrel. With a relieved sigh, she settles back and lifts the corner of her woollen quilt. The boy dives under it at once, burrowing under it like a fox.

“Hey,” she whispers, allowing him to scoot closer and valiantly ignoring the bony elbow digging into her stomach, even though the harsh words are just on the tip of her tongue. She halts them, however, sensing the distress that is strong enough, it almost comes off in waves from the boy. He is trembling, she realises with a sinking heart. “What’s wrong?”

At first, not quite awake yet, she wonders if he is just cold, or wants to talk about something that has happened during the day. After all, she is the only person, besides Nimue, who he deems safe enough to ask sillier questions.

Gawain is too much of a shining hero for him to bother the man. Despite his cheekiness during their forays into the woods, when it comes to talking about mundane matters, Squirrel’s tongue twists into knots, it seems. There is the Monk - Lancelot, she corrects herself for the fifth time just today - but the man is even more lost than the boy. He always looks a bit stunned these days, as if it has finally dawned on him that he is no longer with the Church. It’s such an innocent expression that Pym finds her hatred dwindling against her will. She still tries, scoffing and snarling derisively at him on every occasion, but he takes it all with such stoic, silent humility, that it quickly gets boring. Or that’s what she prefers to use as an explanation.

But enough of him, the young woman admonishes herself, brushing it all off as the daze of sleep tangling her thoughts and confusing her. At least Squirrel finally stopped fidgeting and settled, so small and warm, but also somehow awfully heavy. He doesn’t make a sound, and it’s frankly disturbing to see the usually brash and loud boy so subdued. As the silence stretches between them, Pym gradually wakes up, and at last, her woolly head clears enough that she remembers there is only one reason for the boy to be so scared and yet so quiet.

“Another nightmare?” she asks quietly, and he stiffens, but then gives her a curt nod. “What about?”

“The same,” Squirrel utters grimly and falls silent again. 

Pym barely suppresses a sigh, reaching out to wrap him in her arms. Running her fingers down his spine, she holds him close and waits until the shivers subside a bit. The boy has only tried to tell her once, voice breaking with sobs, about his papa, about what happened in Dewdenn, and then in the Iron Wood.

He couldn't finish the story, and she didn’t ask him to. That day has haunted her dreams, as well. She just didn’t tell anyone. The only thing to give her away was the way she heaved for air, shallow gasps coming way too quick. Pym tried to be as quiet as a mouse, but Dof picked up on it, anyway, and then he made a habit of distracting her with silly stories until she laughed through tears. Once she did, he grinned back, and somehow, their smiles were enough to ward off the dark. 

Since he died, there has been no one to console her the same way. Unwilling to bother Nimue, she has often laid awake, afraid of closing her eyes again, and wondered whether Dof was ever as afraid as she. Perhaps, she muses, nudging her face into the boy’s short prickly hair, it is time for her to become the one who looks unafraid.

“Want me to tell you a story about how I became the best healer ever?”

“Yes,” he blurts out without a thought, and then pauses and adds, “please. The one about how you cut off the wrong finger.”

The corners of her lips tilting up in a small smile, Pym inhales deeply and begins the tale.


	8. Potion

“What is in that bottle?” he asks, nodding at the tall glass vial filled with dimly shimmering green liquid.

“A potion,” Yeva answers calmly, and not for the first time since he answered her summon and stepper over the threshold of her lair, Merlin wonders if the Paladins might be onto something and the witch is sent to him as punishment for his sins. If that is the case, he can only feel bad for her, since she would be stuck here for a long time.

A bird lands on his shoulder, and he lifts a finger to its beak. It goes for a bite, but misses just a bit, beak closing with a loud sound on empty air. When Merlin gives it a bright grin, it ruffles its feathers, raspily croaks in his face, and flies off. For a moment, his eyes track the bird back to the impenetrable wall of branches stretching so far up it blocks almost all the sun rays, but then his gaze falls back down to the bottle. It stands on the slab of stone that serves as a table, and the liquid inside it glimmers with seemingly no need for light.

“I gathered that much, thank you,” the magician scoffs and then frowns. “No, truly, I am not mocking you - I do not know of this one.”

“I gathered that much,” the witch remarks, and he rolls his eyes, but before he can turn away, she continues evenly, “but it is to be expected.”

“Oh?” he lifts his brows, feeling vaguely offended, which is pretty much a given when one talks to the old Moonwing witch. “Why so?”

A faint lopsided smile ticks the corner of her thin lips up. 

“It’s the one that will let you die.”

If the lighting has struck him, Merlin wouldn’t be more stunned, and he knows what he is talking about.

“What?” he croaks out, his voice too loud and ragged in the hushed twilight that the witch dwells in. “Where did you get it?”

She scoffs and frowns, shaking her head. “No business of yours.” Jutting her chin up, she narrows her eyes, and he can see in the corner of his eyes that birds shift and lean down a bit as if listening in. “Will you drink it or not?”

His eyes flicker to the bottle, and the longing is so intense, his mouth goes dry from it. It is almost like the need for a strong drink, but all the wine only brought temporary death, while this one… Merlin thinks of it, considers it with utmost seriousness he rarely displays even in matters that probably call for it, at least from what the others seem to think. After three hundred years, however, caring about the opinions of others is almost in bad taste. It is something children do, not the men who razed entire empires to the ground.

But perhaps, he muses, his child is rubbing off on him. They have been spending quite a lot of time together, as he taught her the intricacies of her gift, polishing that blunt force of hers into something more refined and precise. The girl has been progressing in leaps and bounds, now that there has been someone to actually guide her. She can probably continue without him, now, her connection to the Hidden has definitely strengthened and evolved enough for that. And at some point, you have to let the fledgeling fly on their own, because there are things everyone has to figure out for themselves, no amount of words capable of delivering the point across until you went through it yourself.

Nimue is still a bit wary of her talents, though. For a while, he has wondered why Lenore hasn’t taught her a damn thing, and he’s been rather bitter for a day or two. But perhaps she has tried to save their daughter from the corruption that came with such power. Maybe, it was wise. He isn’t sure he knows any more what is. It is as if his mind has started to unravel a bit under the weight of the years and deeds.

As is his habit when faced with crossroads, Merlin goes with his gut feeling. And that one tells him that he is not done here, yet. Something – someone - out there is still fated to find him, he can almost feel that thread. He doesn’t know the face or the name, or maybe he does, but it is not the right time yet. That someone needs a little bit more time, and Merlin will give it to them.

“No,” he utters at last. “Thank you, Yeva - but I won’t.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shrug or nod – just watches him with an unreadable face. It is, however, painfully clear that they are done here, at least in the witch’s opinion, and inside her lair, that is the only one that matters. This is why she hides in it with such determination, old hag, Merlin thinks, equal parts annoyed and fond. He turns around to leave, but then, one foot over the threshold, he stops. Without turning around, the magician speaks again.

“There is no potion, is there?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” she confirms his guess calmly, and for a moment, Merlin closes his eyes.

“Why then?”

“I needed to know you’re not going to screw it up with him as you did with her.”


	9. Repulsive

Iris watches the little Fey bastards play, as she whittles her bow. When they notice her staring, they falter for a moment, but then one of them, a beast-like girl with antlers growing from her skull, gestures at her to come closer. With a fierce scowl, she shakes head and turns away, eyes coming to rest on the same spot on the wall she had been glaring at for days. Days, and she is no longer closer to killing the Fey Queen. 

Her scowl deepens, tugging almost painfully at her face - ugly little face, Father always told her. Or at least he did before she put a knife through his throat, set fire to the door of their dingy hut, and ran away. The fire burned bright and quick behind her; despite the rain the night before, it caught quickly on the wood, after Iris poured on it all the damned ale her father loved more than her.

And there were so many jugs and mugs of it, littering every corner, even though the village priest told them all it was a sin. But her father never listened to his wise words. He was not a righteous man, that’s why she dared to do what she did. He never listened - but Iris did. God told her himself that of her father’s sentence, he sent her a sign she was begging for every night, bruises on her jaw and forearms the only silent witnesses to her angry whispers.

It was the last time that God deemed her worthy of his attention, but no matter how many years have passed since then, Iris held it close to her heart, that divine, sublime feeling that brought her to tears, as she sobbed in gratitude at being granted her freedom. Freedom that did not last as long as Iris thought it would, as she realised the nuns were not as virtuous as they pretended to be either. 

After seeing that wench Morgana kiss Celia, Iris ran away and washed her eyes with soap until they stung so badly she couldn’t take it anymore. Distraught and aghast at the perspective of condemning someone she almost started to trust, she still dragged herself to the abbess’s door. Once invited inside, Iris pulled herself together and, in a trembling voice, told her of what she had seen… and then the woman just hummed and told her she would look into it. But she never did - Iris never saw any punishment come to either girl. Secretly happy to see Celia stay with them - she was a victim, after all, she still had a chance to repent.

But Iris could not comprehend why Morgana was allowed to stay, as well. The young woman did not even look ashamed, sauntering through the hallways with all the confidence of the favourite daughter; it was almost as if the abbess silently encouraged her sins. After that, Iris started to guard herself in the abbey, as well. She was still young, but who knew when demons would see her ripe.

And now, after she had to commit Celia to the flames, here she was again, that Fey-loving bitch. Looking at her from the shadowed corner, Iris felt her throat close with anger, and forced herself to look away, her eyes landing instead on the demon children, again.

It is not worthy of respect, the way they laugh easily even when they have nothing left, only dirt on their faces and fingers that mirrors hers. It is not curious, the way they speak in languages she doesn’t understand. And the way they partake in foolish, childish games - it is not something she could ever be yearning for.

Repulsive, Iris tells herself, all of it is repulsive, tainted, dirty.

She repeats it to herself until that small flame inside her flickers weakly one last time and then snuffs out for good.


	10. Undead

* * *

Alright, Gawain thinks, this entire thing with the Green Knight has gone too far.

It is all in good fun when other Fey knights tease for the signature antlers, he surely can take a joke about that. When they have started to tell him he looks a bit green, it has gotten old fast. Ignoring how it has grated on his nerves, he’s shrugged it off, sometimes with a retort of his own, sometimes without, and has gone on. It is not like he’s asked for all of this, but someone needed to create this myth, and Gawain just so happened to be in the best position to do so.

Usually, he handles the pressure that comes with the status with enough grace that no one suspects a thing. Well, maybe Nimue does, but she is in a similar position herself, and they understand each other without a word. Things have been tough since he crawled back from the camp, disoriented and sick as fuck, but alive, somehow alive. He wasn’t sure how, but when Nimue returned, as well, dragged in by Merlin, half-alive but still fighting, at least some of the confusion cleared up. Not all of it, though. He didn’t remember anything between dying and waking up, and she couldn’t clearly remember what she did. 

However, it obviously took too much out of her to consider doing it again for other Fey, especially while she was still recovering. Merlin, who hovered at her bedside and vehemently refused to leave, frowned, after hearing of the spell, and pursed his lips, but did not say anything. Gawain wasn't sure why he seemed so tense - sure, they did not get along, to put it lightly, but they shared an interest in protecting Nimue, and with him still alive, the young woman had a better fighting chance. 

Besides, he has even recovered from his wounds. The scars have still been there, the one from the Monk’s sword on his lower back, and the angry lines of brans remained on his chest, but well, he has just tried to bathe alone now. Otherwise, the only thing that really bothered Gawain was a violent, pounding headache, and even that has slowly receded after a week. Sure, everything has still tasted a bit funny for a couple more days, getting like ash and ground on his teeth, but then it passed, as well. Though he has found himself mostly eating meat these days, wherever he could find it, that is true. But he has needed it to recover. And well, come to think of it, sleep has also evaded him, but he’s still managed to catch a couple of hours every night. 

All of this has not seemed to affect him much, so Gawain has decided to stop mulling over his misery and focus on the others. It’s been convenient to need less sleep, after all, what’s with a thousand and one issues in the camp that all required his immediate attention, and quite a lot of them could not wait for the light of day. 

However, now he hasn’t shut his eyes for even a moment in three days - and it has been taking its toll on his mind, if not on his body. His temper has started to flare up at the slightest irritation, be it the chafe of rough fabric against his skin or a foolish remark about the green colour.

“Yes, Arthur, I have heard that one already,” Gawain grits out, willing his headache to back the fuck off - it has started again just now, splitting his skull in half, or at least it feels like that.

“No, I am serious,” the young man insists. “I think you might need to lie down for a bit.”

He is so skillfully pretending to worry, that finally, Gawain snaps.

“Fine,” he bites out, throwing the bundle of maps on the des with more force than needed. “Can you finish the route on your own?”

Arthur nods eagerly, and, with a sigh, the knight picks up his cloak, throws it over his shoulders and departs. Before rounding the corner, though, he turns around and, sure enough, the Man Blood stares back at him, leaning on the door jamb. Damn it. He has wanted to take the right hallway, which is the longer route to his room, but then he could have dropped by the healer. But now, when Arthur pointedly clears his throat, Gawain is forced to clench his jaw and turn to the left.

“I am going. See?” he takes a step with an exaggerated, wide slash of his hand, but all his anger is not enough to make the man avert his pensive eyes. Perhaps he truly needs to rest a bit, Gawain thinks, running a hand over his face as he turns away from Arthur and marches down the hallway.

Slamming the door behind him with a loud thud, he closes his eyes and slowly exhales. The headache is still pounding something fierce, so strong that he can feel the veins pulse in his temples - and then his stomach lurches, and Gawain barely manages to throw himself across the room and bend over the chamber pot.

There is barely anything for him to expel, though, just some bitter bile. He only dry heaves for a minute more and then slowly gets off his knees. Wincing in disgust at the foul taste in his mouth, he wipes it with the back of his hand. It comes off stained with black and green, and Gawain frowns in confusion. A tingle of worry crawls up his spine, but he forces it downs and drags himself to the corner, where a bucket of clean water stands. 

At least the headache eased up a bit, he thinks absently, as he wets the rug and runs it over his face with a dejected sigh. After a moment’s thought, he swipes it over his neck, as well, and, with a deep inhale, presses it briefly against his forehead. It’s so blissfully cold that he closes his eyes for a moment. He must be feverish, Gawain realises, and the worry grows in him, as he walks towards his bed, a narrow but decently built thing that is both tempting and off-putting, since he is dog-tired but has not been able to sleep in it for days. He has to, though, unless he falls ill… though he must be already. Fuck, but they don’t have enough medicines as it is, and here he goes, being sick.

Trying to collect himself, he rubs at his stained hand, but the stubborn green spot just won’t come off. He rubs and rubs, until the skin around grows angry pink, but the faint hue is still there, blooming over his skin like an old bruise.

Slowly, Gawain drops the wet rag aside and sits down on his bed, staring at the spot. He is pretty sure it was not there just a day ago, and the cold feeling of dread twists his stomach at the realisation. 

He must be imagining things, he tells himself, the candlelight is unsteady and dim, barely enough to get by; it doesn’t even reach the corners of the room. Gawain has seen it happen before, people who begin to see things no one else does after they haven’t slept for too long, and it seems he fell victim to that, as well.

Nothing that a bit of sleep can’t change, he decides resolutely and bends over to unlace his boots.

During the night, as he lies, wide awake, Gawain sees a mouse dart across the floor. The animal is daring enough to climb up the bed, and he watches it with vague amusement, but then frowns, as it edges closer. Its whiskers tremble as it sniffs at him curiously, and then it runs up his arm and sits on his chest, looking down on him.

Alright, but that’s enough.

Carrying the tiny body by the tail, he pauses at the window. There is this… urge inside him. Slowly, his hand moving as if against his own will, Gawain brings the dead mouse closer to his nose and inhales deeply. His lips pull back in a snarl, baring his teeth, and then he opens his mouth...

… the door slams downstairs, and, startled, Gawain yanks his hand away. Breathing heavily, he glances around, eyes wildly roaming the room and the gardens without really seeing anything. Then he glances down at the limp mouse still clutched in his hand and, with a strained exclamation of disgust, he chucks it into the window.

It lands on the ground with a soft, short thud, and by then he has collected himself enough to turn away and march back to the bed. His face doesn’t betray a thing as he pulls out the rope from his bag, and ties his wrist to the bedpost. Yanking at it, Gawain nods and lies back down; and finally, after just a handful of minutes, he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me any mistakes, my finger slipped and I wrote all of those in one afternoon. What can I say, I get excited about Halloween and about Cursed, the two of them combined were bound to combust :D


End file.
